Sleepless Nights
by LilCoroner
Summary: A Johnlock fic about the nightmares and just as the title says, sleepless nights of the residents of 221B. Johnlock/Post-Reichenbach, Rated T for some mild descriptions of death and gore and some language.
1. Part One: Not Another One

I sat, perched on my stool in the lab with my eyes dancing around a slide. Molly buzzed around, nervous as usual. She fidgeted constantly in my presence, always shaky and shy. Her lipstick was a subtle brown today. The slide contained a small amount of blood from a crime scene. The sample was depressingly predictable. Middle aged woman, forty-two years old, overweight and recovering cancer patient experiencing menopause. _Dull._ My nose wrinkled with distaste. Surely, Molly had something more interesting for me to pursue.

"Sherlock?" she asked, her voice soft and timid as always, "We've gotten a new body in the morgue. A suicide." A darkness tinged her voice. I was curious, something interesting finally. Rising from my stool, I straightened and buttoned my jacket. A flashback hit me as went to pick up my coat.

I was falling again and I could see John's face contort as I hit the ground, my side and legs taking the brunt of the collision. Pain seared through me as ribs cracked and my shoulder popped. There was no time to lose over mere pain, I had to be gone. A bike hit John, as was part of the plan. I hated to see him pushed down like that and hurt but it was for his own safety. I took the cue and made my efficient escape, or as efficient as my damn body would allow me to be. I was limping at the fastest pace I could muster, my body screeching at me to stop, till I was behind St. Bart's and in Molly's car, which had been cleaned earlier that week judging by the distinct scent of cleaning products and vanilla air freshener. I was holding my side and my arm was limp on my lap.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked, distracting me from my me to focus back into life and my current situation. _Right. There's a body in the morgue. Suicide._

"Oh, yes, fine. Perfectly fine," I replied quickly grabbing my coat. Pain shot through me as my shoulder protested from the sudden movement. I couldn't help but to grimace as my body began to throb. I couldn't help but to grimace. Molly noticed.

"Maybe you should stay behind this time," Molly gestured. I shook my head, slightly annoyed despite her offer being well intended. The last thing I needed was to sit behind while I was already bored to tears.

"I am fine, Miss Hooper," I reiterated tersely. A grim smile crossed her lips but she did not protest my decision further. Without another word, we were traveling. A sense of excitement coursed through me. Suicides were always the best, because half of the time, they weren't real suicides, they were murders made to look like suicides and then that's when the best of the chases come in. And even if they are suicides, getting into their heads to find out why can be most intriguing.

A quiet bounce illuminated my steps as I tossed around possibilities. He or she? Method? Poison? Hanging? My pace quickened and Molly sighed from behind me. I ignored it and continued my trek, letting myself into the exam room. A black body bag layed on the table, hiding the deceased within its opaque womb. Molly came to stand beside me and sighed dismally.

"Suicide's are always the worst," she mumbled.

"Quite the contrary," I replied, "They are the most fascinating." Shaking her head, Molly simply stepped forward to look at her clipboard. Her face darkened with disbelief as she dove for the zipper and yanked it down to reveal the face of the corpse. Her hands came to her mouth and tears rolled from her eyes. I couldn't help but look at her confusedly. Someone she knew, well.

"Sherlock, look," she managed with a shocked whisper, pointing down into the bag. I came forward, my curiosity peaked. I pulled edge of the bag down so I could peer in without getting too close. The moment my eyes made contact with the body, my world crashed around me. I felt myself crumple within and the tears came to me without hesitation.

"John," I breathed, forcing back the powerful wave of emotion that threatened to kill me. A bullet hole was centered in his left temple and his face was oddly calm. The face of death. I couldn't handle this, it was far too much. Rushing from the room, I searched frantically for a place to hide, desperate to get away.

"Oh Sherlock Holmes, you make this too easy," an all too familiar voice stated from behind me. I turned on my heel to see a grinning Moriarty pointing a handgun at me.

"You are _boring._"

With that, he pulled the trigger.

My eyes flashed open as I sprang to a sitting position. I cried dumbly, creating a cracking sound in my throat as my body screamed in pain. My shoulder and ribs burned angrily. Clutching myself, my chest heaved and my hands shook. I closed my eyes and allowed tears to leak from them. I hoped to whatever God there could be that I wasn't screaming in my sleep. _Damn my brain._ I thought bitterly. Slowing my breath the best I could, I climbed out of bed. My housecoat was shrugged over my shoulders and I made my way to the kitchen. The image of John on the gurney was still blazing in my head. I tried fervently to delete the images with no avail.

Reaching into the cupboard, I extracted a mug and mulled over the tea bags. Something simple. I plucked up a bag of Earl Gray and dropped it lazily into the cup. I put the kettle on before stumbling to the window where my violin rested. I resisted the urge to pick it up for fear of my shoulder resisting. I was in enough pain as it was, I didn't need to compound that.

London was peaceful tonight. Few cars drove the streets and the sky was clear. The orange light of streetlamps and pollution gave the city a warm glow. I sighed and carefully brought my hands to my lips with deep thought.

_What is wrong with me? These nightmares must stop. I am Sherlock Holmes dammit, I do not do this. And what if I wake up John if I suddenly begin yelling? I can't allow that to happen..._

A distinct scream pulled me from my mind palace. It was hoarse and throaty. I wasn't the only resident of 221B having this wretched dreams.

"John," I gasped as my heart sank sorrowfully. _Not you too._ I thought. I paced to his room and stopped short of his cracked door. His silhouette contrasted harshly from the moonlit window. He was sitting up in the same position I had been in not five minutes ago, face buried in his hands and breath heavy. I looked upon him, his shirtless frame was convulsing with violent sobs. A hard lump formed in my throat as unease washed over me. I wanted to help but had no idea how to approach him. In my discomfort, I fled to my room and collapsed onto my sheets. _I am such a coward. I won't even help my friend because I'm too afraid. _A small whimper escaped me.

I knew I wouldn't sleep and cursed the darkness. As my eyes closed, the kettle cried out. _Oh, right. Tea._ Forcing myself from the security of my bed, I fumbled my way to the kitchen in order to fulfill my need for caffeine; a drug that would be most welcome in the coming hours. As I left my room, I pulled three patches from their box and instinctively began to roll up my sleeve.


	2. Part Two: I am the Reason for His Pain

Johnlock

Sleepless Nights - Part Two: I'm the Reason for his Pain

_Sleepless Nights - Part Two: I'm the Reason for his Pain_

I rolled up from my mattress and my fingers through my tangled hair; my shoulder protested in pain. Ignoring it, I buried my face in my hands. _Fuck. Not again. Why can't this just stop?_ I thought as I stared out the window. Rubbing my eyes, I swallowed back the clump of emotion in my throat. I needed sleep. Real sleep. Even I was bordering on the tipping point of functionality. John yelled from his room, eliciting a wince from me. _I caused this. I am the reason for his pain. _Forcing myself from the sheets, I donned my housecoat and padded silently to John's room. Now, my whole body was aching. A small whimper escaped my throat and I cursed myself for allowing the sound to be made.

"Sherlock! No, Sherlock!" he screamed. I stopped abruptly at his cracked door and involuntarily shed a tear. He was screaming bloody murder as he thrashed violently in the sheets. This was not a war dream like the ones he had in the past. This one was most definitely about me. My body was convulsing with pain and guilt.

"Sherlock! Don't do it! Please, let me help you! Sherlock!" he cried again. This time I could bare it no longer and let myself in as quietly as possible. I tiptoed to the end of his bed and stood, my eyes dancing over him fervently. I wanted to help him, make him stop, but had no idea how to approach the situation. Another yell tore from his lips. _No stop it. Don't start that. _He continued to toss in his sheets. A dark grimace crossed my face.

"John, _stop,_" I whispered desperately. He started awake and looked directly at me. _Great, I woke him. Now he's going to kill me for being here. I've invaded his space. _My eyes remained glued to his in fear, raking them for his emotions and thoughts. Fear. Shock. Pain. Anger. Another showed crystal clear in his glazed eyes but I refused to allow myself to believe it. Realising what I was doing, I looked away instantaneously. Cold beads of sweat formed in his hairline and dripped down his hairline as he rubbed his arm. The silence was deafening.

"Sorry, I'll um...I'll see y-" I began as I stepped toward the door and clasped the knob. John cut me off before I could flee. My heart thumped in my ears.

"Did I wake you?" he asked. I shook my head quickly before exiting. I all but sprinted down the steps back to the sitting room. Exhaustion clouded my vision and bogged down my thoughts. I stumbled into my bedroom and fell into the mattress; my hands flew to my lips as I went directly to my mind palace. My ribs and shoulder scolded me again. I closed my eyes in an attempt to focus with no avail. Between my sleep deprivation and pain, my eyes began to sag. Catching myself, I kept them open and glared at the ceiling, blinking only when absolutely necessary.

_Have I gone mad? What the hell was that? Just waltzing in on John. I should be ashamed. He's going to skin me for sure. How horribly indecent of me. Since when do I care about decent? Because it's John Watson that's why. Completely without thought for his privacy..._

I continued to scold myself even as the thoughts slurred in my state of sleeplessness. An idea crossed my mind how to make him feel more comfortable; I disregarded it quickly as I succumbed to sleep. No one would want anything to do with me in that respect. I sighed and hoped that this incident would not find its way into our morning coffee conversations.


	3. Part Three: Midnight Tea

Johnlock

Sleepless Nights - Part Three: Midnight Tea

_Sleepless Nights - Part Three: Midnight Tea_

I awoke with a violent jolt to the ceiling above me. Cold and white, it stared at me with an insensitive glare. My shoulder ached and my ribs protested with each heavy breath as I tried to blink the nightmare away. I could not rid myself of John outfitted in the bombs while he spoke Moriarty's poison. All I could think was Moriarty and the control he had over John in those moments. My cheeks were moist from tears no doubt shed in my sleep. I rubbed my eyes rolled over, hoping rest would find me. The sound of heavy, tired feet caught my attention. It seemed my flatmate was also awake and out of bed.

With a quiet sigh, I forced my self from the tangle of sheets. Disregarding my housecoat, I stumbled into the kitchen to find John making tea. Two mugs sat on the counter, one with two sugars. His face was solid and unrevealing. John was expecting me. I cleared my throat and stepped fully into the kitchen.

"I knew you'd be up," he mumbled with a subtle sense of victory. I swallowed hard and ran a hand through my hair. "You too then," he added grimly, confirming his hypothesis.

"Yes," I replied in a low whisper. The question did not have to be asked. John eyed me empathetically. I met his hazel-grey eyes for a long moment before the kettle whistled. Breaking the connection, John took the pot off.

I sat confused in chair while John made tea. Never having a chance to really look in them before, it was all I could not to dissect John's eyes and the volumes they told. He hadn't slept well in two months, and no sleep had touched them in the past four, no, six nights. Sadness crept into them, a sadness of lost love and seeing friends dead on the battlefield. He had a soldier's stare. Betrayal, anger, and something I could not place laced them with subdued freshness. I knew the reason for these emotions. A small pang hit me in an emotional stab of guilt. The beauty and sadness of his eyes crushed me.

The silence was screeching. I knew it had to be broken and John would not be the one to do it. His shyness still wormed its way to the surface, especially around me. An apology was in order and had been since the day I returned to Baker Street. _What do I say? How do I say this? _A mug was placed in front of me, steaming with hot tea. John sat across the table from me, staring blankly into his cup, refusing to meet my eyes.

"John," I began, swallowing a large gulp of tea to melt the lump in my throat and cringed as it seared my mouth. "John, I... I apologize," I stated simply. He looked up from his tea, this time refusing to release my eyes from his. They searched me fervently in their icy stare; trying to decipher if my words were sincere. His stare held a thousand words and desperation. Now it was my turn to bury my face in my tea.

"Why?" John asked in a low, almost whisper. Pain and sleep deprivation tainted his voice. "Why did you come back?" his voice now seethed with boiling rage, the slice of a red hot knife on raw flesh. At that point, I knew the severity of my crime. _I killed John Watson. I drained him of the life that once coursed through his veins. _I couldn't help but not recoil to the back of my chair, face downcast, and shoulders slumped to their maximum potential. More silence, it was my turn to speak.

"I should have somehow alerted you that I was fine, or at least not seriously harmed. You don't have to stay here. If you want..." I choked on the words. "If you want I will simply slip back from your life like I never came back." My words wretched the oxygen from the atmosphere. Rising from the table, I gulped the last swallows from my mug and placed in the sink. As I was leaving the kitchen John's voice stopped me.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will do no such thing," John's words were scathing. I looked back over my shoulder and watched as John approached me. His eyes were ablaze with passion, anger, and countless emotions I could not identify. A nervous flutter raced through me as John backed me into the door frame. He drew himself to full height and crossed my chest with his forearm, crushing me against the wood while his other arm steadied him against me. My breath was a ragged pant beneath him and I...was frightened by him. I couldn't speak, move or breath. Only wait for whatever wrath was to be exacted upon me. God knows I deserved it. He raised his lips to my ear and whispered fiercely. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to let the tears roll down my face.

"I lost you once, you insufferable bastard, and I will NOT lose you again. Do you understand me? Do not think for a moment either of us are leaving this flat. .stay." John's breath was hot in my ear, his voice barely audible but with an intensity that cause shivers to ricochet through me. As soon as the words were spoken, he was gone and up the stairs to his room where the door closed with an angry gentleness.

I stood in shock for an immeasurable amount of time. Unable to breathe or think properly. Intimidation, true intimidation, was something I rarely felt. Something about John caused me to know that I would never leave his side again. The amount of pain it would cause him was too much and the damage would be irreparable. For a few moments I had completely shut down. Gaining back the ability to shakily move again, I fumbled into my room fell onto my bed after flicking the door closed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.


End file.
